


The Ride Home

by ChancreDoll



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Car Sex, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:17:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancreDoll/pseuds/ChancreDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft picks Sherlock up from college for the winter holiday. Sherlock has been anticipating the ride home with Mycroft more than his brother might have expected, but not more than he liked. Smut, some teasing, and a bit of mental game-playing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ride Home

**Author's Note:**

> In my head, Sherlock is of legal age in this story. If you see him at university when he is very young, or if you live somewhere underage persons would be at college, then this story might hit your underage squick, so you’ll want to avert your eyes. There’s no reference to age, and as I said, I see him as old enough to consent, but I’d rather not trigger people inadvertently if I can help it. Thanks!

The Ride Home  
by Chancre Doll

 

Sherlock craned his neck to see as far as he could past the hedgerow. When he failed to see any sign of Mycroft’s car, he pursed his thick lips and turned back towards the hall. He pulled open the door, letting in a cold gust of air. Jordan Middleton-Leach glared up at Sherlock from his seat on a bench in the foyer. Sherlock pretended not to notice his classmate’s sneer. 

His shoes clicked along the marble floor as he returned to his waiting place by his suitcase, which he’d placed near the window. He glanced over at Jordan’s pile of cases, trunks and bags. It looked like he was moving to Burma, rather than just going home for the winter holiday. Sherlock swiftly took in the condition, quality, and style of the bags, as well as Jordan’s trouser hems and deduced his schoolmate was lying about his father’s wealth, his claimed sexual escapades, and his math scores. Sherlock also knew Jordan was a obnoxious shit. But he also figured anyone who spent fifteen minutes with Jordan could figure that out, they didn’t need his brilliant intellect or talent for deductive reasoning. Which was a good thing, because, of course, they didn’t have them. 

Sherlock pressed his forehead to the cold pane of the window and fixed his eyes at the furthest visible point on the road that led up to the college, searching again for any sign of Mycroft’s car. When he felt like his skin would freeze to the glass, he pouted and sat down on the bench, kicking his suitcase lightly with an anxious toe. He fingered the leather handle of the case negligently, before standing only seconds later to resume his watch at the window. He looked at the large clock above the door and had almost decided to sit down again when he saw the sleek hood of a silver auto roll around the curve. 

He sighed, “he’s here.” When he realized he’d spoken aloud, Sherlock pretended, unconvincingly, to cough. He felt his body tense with excitement and anticipation at his brother’s arrival. He grabbed his case, dropped it again instantly to smooth out the front of his coat and pull his scarf straight, then he clutched the suitcase handle again before flying to the door. 

“Good riddance!” Jordan yelled as Sherlock pulled the door open to another stiff, cold wind. “Freak!”

Mycroft’s car was sliding to a halt outside the building, but Sherlock forced his eyes from it and closed the door. He turned back to Jordan with a raised eyebrow. “Your mother lied about your dog,” he said evenly. “The peeka-whatsis with all the hair. It didn’t go to a farm or to your grandmother’s. It’s quite dead.”

Jordan’s eyes went wide. “Mr. Fluffy?” he gulped. 

Sherlock raised his chin and made a slicing motion across his throat. He was quite pleased he’d gotten the peeka-watsis right. He was originally going to go with schnauzer. 

“No,” Jordan mumbled. “Grammy promised.” 

Sherlock’s smile was short-lived and interrupted by the blare of Mycroft’s horn. He jerked his head around and almost tried to go through the door without opening it first. He yanked it open just as Mycroft was unfolding his long, lean body from the front seat. Mycroft regarded Sherlock from the car door. The winter breeze pushed his hair into his eyes and he swiped at it with a leather-gloved hand.

Sherlock’s eyes fixated on Mycroft’s long fingers and the black leather gloves. He didn’t realize he’d stopped moving. 

“Well?” Mycroft blared only slightly less loudly than the horn. “What’re you waiting for? The doorman? An engraved invitation? Or a summons from the Queen?” 

Sherlock was instantly propelled into movement by Mycroft’s voice. He was standing inches from his brother before he realized it, their bodies too close for anything other than a hug, which was completely out of the question. Sherlock thrust his empty hand forward as if for a handshake, despite it being his left, and he leaned back in an attempt to make it look less like the awkward display it ultimately was. He caught a whiff of Mycroft’s favorite soap, the hint of brandy on his breath, and the rich tang of the new leather gloves. His nerves tingled at the familiar odor of closeness. 

Mycroft screwed up his forehead and tisked. “Oh please,” he said with a puff of breath that steamed in the cold air. “You really are socially incompetent. Put your bag in the boot.” He made no move to shake Sherlock’s hand or otherwise touch him, instead turning his back and leaning over to release the boot.

Sherlock moved to the rear of the car and flung his suitcase inside. He closed the boot and hurried to the passenger seat. He climbed in and slammed the door shut, but Mycroft was still standing outside the car. Sherlock leaned over the driver’s seat to look at Mycroft questioningly. 

Mycroft peered down at him with the superior look that always both irritated and ignited Sherlock. 

“I’m supposed to pick up your report from the head master,” Mycroft said. “Father thinks you’ll try to give him a forged version. He doesn’t trust you.” He tugged his collar around his neck in a very authoritative manner. Sherlock began to protest, but Mycroft’s mouth pulled up on one side into a grin. “I told him not to trust you.”

Sherlock’s feigned look of indignation disappeared and he grinned back. “Well, you were right,” he admitted. 

“Aren’t I always?” Mycroft replied. He didn’t give Sherlock an opportunity to answer, instead closing the car door, and making his way inside the building. 

Sherlock pulled his coat tighter against the cold that was quickly displacing the car’s heat. He sat there for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for Mycroft. He’d already been waiting all day, all week, all term it felt like. Mycroft had been so close, and now he was out of reach again. 

Sherlock’s obsessive brain kept returning to the vision of Mycroft’s long, slender fingers encased in the smooth black gloves. He closed his eyes and inhaled the remembered smell of the leather, saw the recalled vision of Mycroft’s knowing smile, and felt the anticipation of Mycroft’s forbidden touch. 

He smoothed the fabric of his coat, thinking of Mycroft and the pleasure he took in tasteful, proper attire. Sherlock had spent nearly an hour pressing and rolling his coat, shirt, and trousers to make them crisp and lint-free. He put them on reverently, anticipating Mycroft’s scrutiny. He thought of Mycroft looking him over, inspecting him, checking the diligence of his ironing with those gloved hands.

Sherlock’s every nerve was on fire and he felt an increasing pressure in his groin. He tired to look out the driver’s window, but the steam from his breath had fogged it up. He reached over and wiped a clear spot, but there was no sign of Mycroft returning. Sherlock stuffed his fingers in between his thighs and bit his lip, trying not to think of the time he would soon be spending with Mycroft, at home, back in his room. If Mycroft would only hurry, they could be back and hidden away in their private spot before their parents forced them to attend the ridiculous holiday party. 

He fingered the smooth fabric of his trousers and his mind turned to grand dreams of Mycroft’s pride and approval. Sherlock’s dick twitched and thickened at the imaginings of Mycroft’s embrace and the feel of his lips on his skin. 

“No,” he moaned, trying to dampen his growing excitement. He pushed irritatedly at his lengthening dick, but the contact only incited him further. “We’ve got a long drive first,” he complained to the cold and steamy car.

Sherlock was startled by the thump of the door handle. He pulled his hands from between his legs and stuffed them in his coat pockets, drawing the wool around the bulge in his trousers. 

Mycroft appeared at the door and eased into the seat. “You could’ve turned it on to keep it from fogging,” he admonished. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock said quickly, biting down on his lip. The sight of his brother’s long legs curling into the auto and his fingers turning the ignition from within their cocoon of leather forced blood into Sherlock’s swelling cock. Warm air began to blow from the vent as Mycroft turned it to full to dissipate the condensation. He threw a large envelope on Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock made no move to remove his hands from his pockets to hold it. 

“Looks like old man Wilton was very enthusiastic about his report,” Mycroft said as they waited for the windows to de-fog. “So much for a simple note home to mother. He’s written a novel about you. I take it you’ve been typically slack in your studies? Causing trouble? Or just acting like a complete psychotic?” He didn’t wait for an answer. His frown of disapproval made it obvious he didn’t want a response. “Wilton told me Father should put you in a ‘special facility’. I imagine he’s included suggestions. Maybe even pamphlets.” Mycroft snorted and wiped at the windscreen. 

Sherlock stared at the offending envelope, the sting of Mycroft’s disapproval releasing some of the thrill that had been building in his abdomen and replacing it with shame. 

“I suggest we wait until after the party to give it to Father,” Mycroft said, leaning across Sherlock to wipe the passenger side of the windscreen with his gloved fingers. “Unless you have a brilliant excuse cooked up for why he should let you go back to university next term.”

Sherlock looked up to watch Mycroft’s hand glide over the condensation on the glass. The beads of moisture slowly rolled over the leather and down Mycroft’s long fingers. “Actually, I have seven brilliant excuses cooked up,” he muttered, his eyes captivated by the motion of Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft turned to him, their faces inches apart, hovering for only seconds, but Sherlock held his breath and feared he would suffocate. 

Mycroft sat back, and apparently determining the windscreen was clear enough, he put the car into drive. They slowly rolled forward to circle out to the road. “I have no doubt you do,” he said. He glanced from the road to Sherlock with a wry grin. 

When Mycroft’s eyes met his, Sherlock almost whimpered with pleasure. Under the large envelope, through the fabric of his pockets, he pushed desperately at his stiff cock, which was showing renewed excitement. 

Mycroft turned the blower down and pulled the auto onto the main road. There were few cars on the route. He flipped on the headlamps as the sun dipped behind a hill. “So? Good term at school?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Sherlock said quickly, trying to keep his voice even and his need hidden. He fiddled his fingers into his crotch as subtly as possible. 

Mycroft passed a lorry with a noisy muffler. “That’s enlightening,” he said.

“Yeah,” Sherlock replied. He knew he was distracted and needed to concentrate on keeping up the conversation, but he couldn’t pull his eyes from Mycroft’s fingers or his mind off his desperately thrumming cock.

“Okay,” Mycroft said, “you’re in one of those moods.” He pursed his lips and continued to watch the road. “Same old Sherlock.” He abandoned the effort to make conversation. 

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock continued watching Mycroft and his hands - his beautiful leather-covered hands. He was unable to repress his needy wiggles. He tried to casually move his fingers in his coat pockets against his trouser fabric so that it caused a pleasant friction. It worked for awhile, but he found it increasingly difficult to be subtle with his movements. Despite the chill, he began to sweat and his shirt stuck to his neck and back. 

As he continued to slowly move his fingers in his coat pocket over his cock, Sherlock managed to fumble the envelope from his lap and it slid to the floor of the car. He quickly bent to grab it, but his hands stuck in his pockets, and the velocity of the auto banged his head into the dash. The flaps of his coat opened and revealed his lap, causing him to panic and sit up too abruptly in order to cover his erection. He knew it didn’t appear casual. He attempted to recover, slamming the envelope over his crotch and pinning it down with both hands at his side. He felt the extreme heat in his cheeks and the yearning in his dick more acutely than the bump on his forehead. 

Mycroft looked at him clinically. “You okay?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said instantly. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to situate the envelope in a manner to cover his needy bulge, while attempting to slide his hand back into his pocket. He shifted and wiggled awkwardly for several minutes before Mycroft sighed. 

“Good God,” he said. “Seriously, Sherlock? Again?” 

Sherlock didn’t think his face could get any hotter, but he swore his cheeks were engulfed in flames. He scrunched his eyes in mortification. 

Mycroft kept one hand on the wheel and tugged at the envelope on Sherlock’s lap. “I swear your body chemistry is made of of 90% testosterone. I was never this bad when I was your age.”

Sherlock let Mycroft move the envelope to expose the lump of hard flesh pushing against the smooth fabric of his trousers. He sighed with resignation and looked at the ceiling of the car, indignantly pulling his coat back over his lap. 

Mycroft kept his eyes on the road as he pitched the envelope into the back seat with a loud thwack. He returned his hand to Sherlock’s lap, however, and he smacked Sherlock’s hand away. Mycroft’s gloved fingers wormed under the coat to find Sherlock’s erection. He turned his head from the windscreen only briefly to glance down, not making eye contact. “Bloody hell. You’re hard as a rock,” he said, his hand cupping Sherlock’s bulge. 

“I know,” Sherlock said as he sucked in air at Mycroft’s touch. He tensed as Mycroft rubbed his hand inquiringly over his prick. He watched Mycroft’s fingers move over the trousers, the small wrinkles of his glove undulating over the ripples of fabric. The heat of Mycroft’s body seemed to move through his fingers and into Sherlock’s straining dick. Sherlock thought he might pass out if he couldn’t soon remember how to take a breath. 

Mycroft returned both hands to the wheel and Sherlock almost moaned. He was able to breathe again, but it was no substitute for Mycroft’s touch. He was oblivious to the fields and houses passing swiftly along the road. He stared at Mycroft, who appeared completely nonplussed, occasionally checking the review for traffic. 

Sherlock pulled the edges of his coat over his tented trousers again, dizzy and confused.

After a few minutes, Mycroft broke the silence. “So?” Mycroft asked. “Is it that little tart with the sideburns back at the hall?” He glanced at Sherlock with eyes that didn’t reflect any belief that this was a serious interrogation. “Is he your boyfriend?” The last word dripped with sarcasm.

“No. Of course not.” Sherlock knew the denial was necessary, not because Mycroft actually believed it, but because Mycroft wanted him to say it. Sherlock was willing to play the game. He actually loved games. He was just glad to know Mycroft was still playing. “Jordan Middleton-Leach is an imbecile and pathetically heterosexual. He’d jack-off to pictures of Princess Anne if they came in a girlie magazine.” 

Mycroft humphed. “Then who is it?” He looked sideways at Sherlock with pursed lips. “You can’t tell me you’ve gone another term without losing it. At your age?”

Despite his overwhelming horniness and need for Mycroft, Sherlock felt a bright hot stab of embarrassment and anger. “Fuck off.” 

Mycroft laughed. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about little brother.” He briefly looked over at Sherlock. “Oh, don’t be petulant.” He slid his hand over Sherlock’s thigh and under the edge of his coat to his crotch again. “My little virgin Sherlock.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply at Mycroft’s caress. “You’re an ass,” he said with heavy breath. He was nevertheless relieved that Mycroft’s fingers were back where he needed them. He clutched onto his coat with both fists, the wool scratched at his palms. 

Mycroft squeezed Sherlock’s erection through his trousers, then pulled at the fabric covering Sherlock’s penis. “You want me to?” he asked with more than a hint of arrogance. He looked directly at Sherlock for just an instant before turning back to the windscreen. “I know you do,” he said. 

Sherlock moaned at the force of Mycroft’s gaze, “yes.” His head spun at the idea he was finally getting what he’d been dreaming of all day. “I do.”

Mycroft worked his fingers along the length of Sherlock’s cock, pushing the fabric over the sensitive member. “Then ask me,” Mycroft said, his voice echoing the tease of his fingers. 

Sherlock’s every sense was focused on Mycroft’s profile as his brother steered the car. “Please, Mycroft.” He arched his back and pushed his groin into Mycrofts hand. 

Mycroft smiled and gently rolled his fingers over the fat head of Sherlock’s cock, the fabric of Sherlock’s underwear already so soaked with precome, it slid under the slick material of his pants. “You close?” Mycroft asked. 

Sherlock’s breath was sharp as he replied. “Yes. No. No.” His buttocks were tight and he squirmed under Mycroft’s touch. He wanted Mycroft to take him somewhere, like they’d done before when they stole away from home, but Sherlock also knew they would be late for the family party if they did that. There would be questions. It would be uncomfortable. But he was already so uncomfortable and desperate. And he didn’t want to admit to the haughty Mycroft that he couldn’t wait. “No. No, I can hold it until we get home,” he said quickly, but his throaty moan at Mycroft’s next stroke was a more truthful indicator of his condition. 

“Pull down your pants,” Mycroft commanded. He let go and returned both hands to the wheel to put on his blinker. “It’s dark. No one will see.”

Sherlock fumbled with anticipation as he worked the button at his waist. He watched Mycroft drive and pulled his fly down, slipping his trousers and boxers over his ass to his knees. The cold air hit him immediately and he shivered. Mycroft began to pull off his glove while keeping the steering wheel even. 

“No!” Sherlock said, louder then he meant to. When Mycroft looked at him with surprise, Sherlock amended, “The gloves. Keep them on.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and smiled with a tilt of his head. “Well, well, little brother,” he said with an exaggerated air. “You are a kinky thing, aren’t you?” But he pulled the glove back on, tugging it down at the wrist with his teeth.

Sherlock waited expectantly, his hard cock jutting into the cool air of the car. He was vaguely aware of cars and lights passing in traffic as he dug his grip into the car seat. His focus was on the ache in his groin and Mycroft’s sly grin as he licked his lips. Sherlock was unaware when a whimper passed his mouth.

Mycroft chuckled. “Be patient. I’m driving.”

Despite his admonishment, Mycroft reached over with a quick glance away from the road and grasped Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock moaned as the smooth leather of Mycroft’s glove moved over his aching member. Mycroft returned his eyes to the road while he smeared precome slowly over Sherlock’s erection, coating it while he held tight to the steering wheel with his other hand. Sherlock gripped even tighter onto the seat. It was blissfully painful and he’d waited far too long. He bit his lip trying to stifle the noises he knew he’d still make. 

Mycroft began pumping Sherlock’s length even as he diligently watched the traffic. He stropped Sherlock harshly and quickly and Sherlock pushed forward into Mycroft’s palm, his slender hips humping off the car seat. His quick pants were laced with small whines and moans. 

Suddenly, Mycroft dropped Sherlock’s erection and put both hands to the steering wheel to negotiate a tricky turn. Sherlock groaned pathetically. Mycroft snickered and after he let go of the wheel, he lazily adjusted the review mirror. His glove glistened. 

Sherlock’s mouth hung open and he stared with pleading intensity at his brother. “Mycroft!” He ran his hands greedily over his thighs. The cold air brought goose pimples to his skin but it didn’t cool the heat building in his groin. “Come on!” 

“Safety first, dear brother,” Mycroft said as he glanced at Sherlock, whose fingers were flitting desperately toward his dick. “Or do you want to do it yourself?” 

“No. Of course not,” Sherlock practically whined. He forced his hands away from his aching cock and clutched onto the head rest behind him, undulating his hips in desperation. He was keenly aware of the leather seat pulling against his sweaty buttocks. “Mycroft, you ass,” he begged, “please.” Mycroft set his chin forward in a look of supreme arrogance which only caused Sherlock to keen again. 

“You have absolutely no manners,” Mycroft complained. But he still looked over quickly and took Sherlock’s weeping dick into his fist. He returned his eyes to the road. “If I hadn’t been forced to live with you, I’d have thought you were raised in a barn,” he said, gently squeezing his fingers. 

Sherlock groaned in pleasure. “I said, ‘please’.”

Mycroft grunted a little chuckle. “Well, yes. Maybe there’s hope for you,” he said. He continued his survey of the road, but ran his gloved hand up the hard length of Sherlock’s dick. He worked his fingers over the head, smearing more precome over his leather-covered fingers. “It’s better me with, isn’t it?” he murmured in a low, sultry rumble.

Sherlock grunted his agreement and pushed forward into Mycroft’s hand. “Uh-huh. Yes.” He pressed his head against the back of the seat between his elbows as he clutched the headrest. “Yes, Mycroft.” A swath of dark curls stuck to the sweat on his forehead. He bit his thick lower lip and nodded, “Yes.” 

Mycroft began quickly stroking Sherlock again, encouraging him with occasional glances away from the road and saying, “You like that? Yes? Like that?” 

“Yes, you.” Sherlock bucked his hips up off the seat as his brother fisted him. His eyes only left Mycroft’s face when he involuntarily pinched them closed. “You. Only you. Onl-oohh.” He groaned and shot his load over his thigh and Mycroft’s glove. 

“Good,” Mycroft encouraged. “Good.” 

Once Sherlock had spent his orgasm, he slumped back into the seat gasping. 

Mycroft wiped the spunk off his fingers and onto Sherlock’s coat. “You’ll have to clean that first thing when we get home,” he warned. 

“Of course.” Sherlock whispered, barely able to speak through his labored panting. “I know that.” 

He slowly pulled up his shorts and trousers, trying not to let them slide through the wet trail on his leg and failing. He fastened his trousers, his trembling fingers slipping from the buttons and jerking the zipper. When he’d pulled his coat back over his legs, he reached back between the seats to grab the envelope, placing it delicately on his lap. 

Sherlock stared forward through the windscreen, echoing Mycroft’s posture. “I love you,” he said softly.

“Of course,” Mycroft replied quietly, his eyes never leaving the road. “I know that.”


End file.
